Happy Holidays, inkstainedarm!
Recipient: inkstainedarm
Author: atomais
Title: Bulletproof
Genre: Comedy
Pairing/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, Israfil (the Angel of the Horn).
Rating: G
Summary: When an angel comes after Crowley seeking retribution it's down to Aziraphale to protect his friend.
--
Flickering in and out of darkness, Crowley tried to focus on the dull throbbing below his neck. It was like an ache; familiar and wrong. He wasn’t supposed to feel pain, really, he was sure of it, but that didn’t make it go away. In fact, it seemed quite happy to sit there and be an irritating presence, as though it was scolding him for something.
The sensation of fond irritation struck the demon and he paused before gasping for breath.
Aziraphale.
But before he could even think of moving the darkness consumed him once more.
-
It had started out quite pleasantly, as much awful prose tends to.
The angel moved downstairs from his room to the interior of the bookstore. Of course, he didn’t sleep so nights were often spent either on the brink of drunkenness with Crowley or upstairs in the supposed bedroom, reading a dusty signed Wilde or smiling fondly at a terribly edited biblical volume; it often depended on whatever took the angel’s fancy that night - and, when it came to books, everything tickled Aziraphale’s fancy.
All in all, tickleness aside, it had started out as quite a pleasant day, one which had followed a rather lovely night. This angelic niceness (which was wonderful to Aziraphale, of course, but would have made even the most loving environmentalist feel a little queasy) was disturbed feverishly by the demon that burst through the door, turned, locked it, turned back and then pressed his body against it as though that would stop the supernatural entering the shop.
Aziraphale sighed and looked longingly around the wood panels and the new first editions that had recently come into his possession. Crowley had a way of making one worry for the things they prized, after all. History spoke for itself more than not and he moved from his little desk towards the panicking creature that seemed to be debating between hiding under a nearby table or using said table to block the door.
“Hello, dear boy.”
The demon jumped, as though hearing Aziraphale’s voice from inside his own bookshop was something that was disturbing. He glanced around nervously before slowly rising to stand at full height, adjusting his suit a little. The angel noted that he looked quite pale and he had forgotten to put sunglasses on. Either he had gotten drunk and fallen into the duck pond in the park again (2) or Hastur had come for vengeance. Aziraphale knew which one he preferred.
“Morning, angel. Bit wet out, you know. Cold blooded, hate rain, etcetera. Nice of you to offer me shelter. How about some tea?”
Crowley turned and started an attempt at a brisk walk towards Aziraphale’s little kitchen. Before he could make it half way across the stop he was stopped by Aziraphale moving towards the door curiously, reaching out to open it. Before he could even twist the knob the demon’s hand pressed down on his as he laughed nervously, doing the best to turn the angel and push him away from the door.
“Now, haha, I think perhaps you should make the tea. You’ve always been better at it, haven’t you? Come along, tally ho, you know, angel.”
Said angel looked rather disgruntled.
“Now, Crowley, if you have done something to upset the Metropolitan Police I’m afraid I really cannot help you. It’s against my nature to harbour a fugitive, you know, and frankly I think you probably deserve whatever they’re going to give-”
“No, no angel, you’ve got the complete wrong end of the stick. Look, trust me, you really don’t want to go out there. Got it?”
The angel’s eyebrow lifted. Crowley stared. The angel frowned. Crowley faltered.
“Fine, fine! For H- G- S- Someone’s sake! You’re awful, do you know that! No secrecy, that’s what I have to put up with! What if it was your birthday and I wanted to throw a party? You’d never let me rest if you thought I was keeping something!”
The angel laughed softly. “Goodness, my dear. You would never throw me a party, and I’m quite sure I don’t even have a birthday.”
“You’re missing the point! Can’t you trust me this once?”
Aziraphale paused before shaking his head. He was about to say that of course, he trusted the demon explicitly and just as far as he could throw him, when he felt a strong force press against the bookshop. The force got stronger and stronger, causing the few pens on Aziraphale’s desk to do a little jig whilst the paper near the edge leapt for its life, deciding that it wasn’t worth suffering through the pain of the angel’s accounts anymore. It was like a small earthquake, but contained within one bookshop.
Crowley whimpered and decided the best course of action was to hide behind Aziraphale. Aziraphale decided that it would be best to open the door.
As his hand touched the handle again, the shaking ceased. There was a confused pause (in which Crowley peeked over the angel’s shoulder) and then a quick, precise rap upon the window of the door. Crowley hissed and ducked his head and Aziraphale threw him a dirty look. They had faced the apocalypse and this is how Crowley managed himself? At least he was a little less irritating when he seemed to fear for his life.
“I’m terribly sorry, but we’re closed. Please, do come back tomorrow.” Aziraphale said tartly. There was another knock and then, after a short pause, a third, followed by a voice.
“Aziraphale. Do be kind and open the door, there’s a good dear. I have a job to do and I shouldn’t like to have to summon Gabriel down because you persist in protecting your pet demon. There’s a good boy.”
The principality’s nose wrinkled, and Crowley gasped in a rather remarkable impression of pantomime outrage. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him, Crowley. We all tend to know each other rather well, unfortunately, and Israfil probably has a personal bone to pick with you, my dear. You know I really cannot stand in the way of angelic business.”
“Israfil? You mean the angel of the horn? Judgment day horn-blowing and all that hurrah? Please tell me you’re joking, ange- Are you blushing?”
“No, of course not,” Aziraphale said. He did, however, turn his head away, giving a pointed look at the suicidal paper now littering the floor. Crowley stared at him in bewilderment, but decided it was best to drop the subject when Israfil knocked again.
“Come along, ‘Zira. We’re all friends here, no? I really do need to smite him, I’m afraid. I get that you’re all friendly with the poor dear but it’s divine retribution.”
“You intend to smite him, I presume?” Aziraphale asked with tiredness echoing in the gentle sigh that followed. He held up a hand as Crowley began his violent protests - he had come to Aziraphale for protection, after all.
“Well, yes. But only a little bit, dear friend! He’ll still be capable of slythering around getting up to mischief for you to put a stop to, I’m sure. He does deserve it - do you know how long I’ve been waiting to blow that horn?”
“A long time?” Crowley supplied with a smirk. Aziraphale glared.
“A very long time,” Israfil replied, sounding very affronted - as though Crowley had just told him that his angelic flower garden wasn’t really up to scratch. The angel - that is, the angel currently pretending he couldn’t feel his demonic friend’s nails press into his back rather painfully - sighed, crossing his arms.
“Yes, well, petty vengeance over your lack of purpose should really be left Up There, don't you think, dear? I understand that Crowley may have stopped judgment coming on time but, really, Israfil, this is too much even for you. You know vengeance is for the Lord to conduct as He sees fit.” The duo could almost hear the angelic outrage from the other side of the door.
After a long moment, a sword was thrust through the front door. Aziraphale almost wept (3).
“Here’s Johnny!” Crowley hissed into his ear, and Aziraphale turned to give him A Look.
“I thought you were quite aware that his name is Israfil, my dear. Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Crowley rubbed his forehead with a hand before waving the angel away.
“Perhaps you should focus on the flaming sword sticking through your door, angel.” Said angel thought that was quite a good idea and he stepped back, pushing Crowley with him in an awkward waltz-like motion (4).
Israfil, in all his Holy Glory, looked rather like a slightly overweight Scottish banker that hadn’t really remembered that he needed to wash his clothes. Aziraphale pitied the man’s lack of new clothes - while smiling fondly at his new crisp white shirt - while Crowley wondered if tartan was part of angelic uniform, a thought that turned his stomach.
“Aziraphale, really. I never thought I would see you preventing a rightful course of action - save that whole End-Of-The-World deal. I don’t think Michael has quite forgiven you for that. Did you know he had spent a good month sharpening swords? Poor dear.”
“Goodness, really? Dear me, now I truly do feel rather awful.” Israfil looked quite pleased with the answer whilst Crowley’s bright yellow eyes stared at Aziraphale as though he had just grown a pair of horns and declared himself Lucifer.
“Angel, did you just successfully pull off sarcasm?” The demon asked. Aziraphale merely smiled.
“Do be quite, demon. The Righteous are speaking, there’s a good boy.” Israfil gave Crowley a fatherly smile before pulling his sword out of the door and stepping through the gap. Aziraphale looked as though the angel had stabbed him through the heart as splinters of wood fell to the ground. “Now, please don’t tell me I will have to fight you for him, Aziraphale. That’s not good conduct, you know that, and imagine the paperwork!” Aziraphale imagined. He shuddered.
“I am quite sorry, dear boy, but I’m afraid Crowley is off limits when it comes to angelic retribution. I will have to stand in your way.”
Israfil nodded.
“Fair enough.”
And then he charged.
-
When Crowley finally come too (properly, instead of the wishy-washy half-consciousness that he had spent the best part of an hour suffering through) Aziraphale was sitting beside him, book in hand. He didn’t look entirely fussed, save for the wrinkles in his collar and a few dark red stains on his shirt. Suddenly, Crowley felt a little less like being awake.
“’Lo, angel.” He tried to sit up, but a dull throbbing in the back of his head made him decide that wasn’t the best idea he’d had in a while. Aziraphale put his book down and shifted his chair so that he was looking at the demon properly.
“Hello, dear. How are you feeling? I did my best, but there’s only so much angelic healing can do for a demon, you know.” He did look rather put out and Crowley supposed that forgave the pounding of blood in his ears and the throbbing in his chest.
“I’m fine and dandy, no worries here,” He said with a wave of his hand. “Just tingling from all that angelic retribution. I think that’s a hobby I can happily say I will not be taking up. Angelic punching bag is off the bucket list, you’ll be glad to know.”
Aziraphale stared at him.
“It’s not an actual list in a bucket, or a list of buckets, or anything like that.”
“Oh. Right.”
Crowley almost wished he was still knocked out.
“So, you want to tell me what happened or do I have to ask his Horniness himself?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he looked more than a little flustered (Crowley only then realised the pun - he was doing these things without thinking now, the sign of a good demon) before he nodded his head.
“Well, I fought him off.”
Crowley started laughing.
-
Aziraphale watched with wide eyes as Israfil slammed the blunt hilt of the sword into Crowley’s chest, pinning him awkwardly against one of the walls, knocking him out while quite probably leaving him with a rather nasty bruise (5). He looked around desperately, trying to find some kind of weapon to use against a vengeance seeking angel and the first thing he grabbed was a lamp. Moving forward, he smashed it against Israfil’s head, like he had seen in those wonderful fifties films where the policeman was always right and things were wonderful.
Israfil just stared at him as though he was barmy.
“Honestly, ‘Zira, you’ve been down here too long. You honestly thought that would stop an angel? Dear me, I am quite disappointed.” Unfortunately, the Angel of the Horn quite forgot about the fact that Aziraphale was still rather quick-witted. He reached out and touched his fingers to Israfil’s now less-flamey flaming Sword and, in his other hand, his own (admittedly, rather less impressive) sword appeared in his hand in place of a lamp shard. He just needed a good blueprint, that was all. The angel’s stared at each other before the one pinning Crowley started laughing.
“My, my, Aziraphale. How many centuries has it been since you even touched a sword? I’m impressed by your valour if nothing else. It’s quite touching to see you so devoted to your little demonic pet.”
He thought better of his words when Aziraphale lunged.
Not many people have had the pleasure of seeing angels fight, mostly because their nature is one of Christian pacifism and tender, light-hearted debates instead of full-out swordfights. Even their jousting was done with oven mitts and marshmallows on the ends of the blade. This fight, however, was something spectacular. Both of the heavenly beings had a good reason to fight (at least in their own minds) and both would rather go through the tedious paperwork that followed discorporation than give up or, worse, lose.
Their swords clashed magnificently, and Aziraphale winced under the pressure. Israfil had been right, it had been a long time (the uncertain moments he’d held the sword when they thought it was all over barely counted for practice) and he wasn’t too sure he could actually win. The thought actually scared him and he pressed forward, trying to overpower the angel opposite him.
Israfil twisted and turned away, watching in amusement as Aziraphale stumbled forward awkwardly. The mishap didn’t phase the former Guardian at all as he moved forward, lunging at the Angel of the Horn with something a little stronger than determination in his eyes. It wasn’t murder, but it was as close as an angel could get without running the risk of not being an angel anymore.
If Aziraphale had been a little more poetic he might have described their fight as a badly choreographed dance that tried to be a gavotte but ended up being a underwater barn dance. They leapt, parried, pushed and shoved, Aziraphale determined to protect Crowley and Israfil determined to gain what he felt was his. Although it had been centuries, Aziraphale had to admit to himself that he really wasn’t all that bad at this sword-fighting lark, despite the cuts that the other angel had managed to lay against him in an obvious attempt to prove otherwise. Israfil seemed to think the same about himself.
“I do hate to toot my own horn -” Aziraphale groaned at the horrible pun as he twisted and tried to land a blow on the other angel’s shoulder. “- but I’m still rather good at this battling thing, aren’t I? How extraordinary. I’m quite proud of you too, ‘Zira, but you’re not quite good enough I’m afraid.”
There was a low ching sound as their swords clashed again, and they sidestepped each other. Aziraphale was twisting and turning nervously, pushing hard against the parries and blows. He could feel fond memories of Prince Arthur and Lancelot and all the people that had fallen into myths come over him and he smiled to himself - which resulted in Israfil almost cutting his neck clean off. He moved backwards and ended up holding his sword out - as Israfil did the same. The tips of the blades touched each other gently and Aziraphale wondered what on earth he was supposed to do.
Glancing at Crowley he did his best not to wince. There was a purple-brown mark on his chest, half-bruise and half-burn, and it looked like he would have a rotten headache when he finally came to. Israfil took advantage of his moment of distraction and leapt forward, opening his wings to offer himself momentum. Almost acting on instinct Aziraphale opened his own, using them as a shield - and it hurt. He could feel the ripple of pain and he knew, deep down inside himself, that his pristine white wings were now stained red. He hissed a little in pain (completely different from Crowley’s snake hisses) and pushed forward, using the air to push himself into Israfil.
What came next was less of a sword-fight and more of a tussle. Aziraphale and Israfil pushed against each other, trying to bend their arms in ways that would let them use their swords offensively, but the close contact that came from a near fight-fight prevented the steel being used. Eventually, Aziraphale threw his sword to one side and moved, pressing his hand down against one of Israfil’s wings, effectively pinning him. He moved and straddled the other angel with a wince before grabbing the angel’s sword, throwing it to rest near his own.
Both angels were breathing heavily despite not needing to actually breathe, and Aziraphale had come out on top. Literally.
“There now,” Aziraphale said softly. “Be a good dear and leave Crowley alone, won’t you? It wouldn’t do you any good to try and hurt him now, don’t you think? I’d hate to have to complain about you deliberately attacking a fellow angel - I’m sure you’re quite aware of how Gabriel feels about those sorts of things.”
Israfil sighed and lifted a hand weakly in surrender. Aziraphale smiled and rose to his feet, moving over to pick up the swords and miracle them away to some dark place in the back room of the bookshop. Looking around, he winced. Torn covers, cut leather, dust scattered everywhere - perhaps he should have let Crowley get smited. Just a little.
“For an old boy you’ve still got the spirit, dear,” Israfil said softly, retracting his wings. Aziraphale didn’t dare do the same in fear of the pain. The other angel continued. “I am not sorry for coming to take what was mine by right, but I suppose there will be another Judgement day. I will be looking for you then, Aziraphale. You can’t get away with it twice.”
Aziraphale nodded. He knew that, and it caused his body to feel rather cold. “Thank you, dear boy. I think it would be best if you left now - I don’t think Crowley would be all that happy to see you should he awaken sometime soon.” Israfil nodded solemnly, turning towards the door. Aziraphale watched him, feeling as though it was too good to be true.
“Oh, ‘Zira, dear,” Israfil began slowly. The other angel’s eyes flickered back to him as he paused in his rush to see Crowley. “I wouldn’t expect a Christmas card this year.”
Aziraphale could have laughed.
-
Crowley was speechless.
“You actually fought him off? With swords and blood and -- you fought him off? You could have died- discorporated!”
Aziraphale nodded his head, wincing as he felt the strain of his wings. Crowley saw and hissed in anger, twisting his hands as a bowl of warm water appeared in them. “Come here, angel.”
The angel moved forward, turning rather nervously to face his friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him, but it was that… Grooming wings could often be painful, moreso if they were already scratched up from an angelic duel. Still, Crowley’s hands were gentle and Aziraphale could barely feel the pain under the warmth of the warm water.
Crowley, himself, felt warm even without the water. He could feel the bubbling happiness spread through him as he realised, rather unsettlingly, that Aziraphale had fought for him and, in a way, his honour. It was strange, but he would never admit that the thought made him more than a little happy. It was nice to have someone looking out for you, after all.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and he didn’t expect a reply.
-
(1) It might even be said that Aziraphale’s novella fancies were more tickable than others, but that was a debate that the angel did his best not to allow to be brought to light. It almost measured up to the tickableness of his fancies for food, wine and ducks.
(2) The police had searched valiantly, but when a demon wanted to hide there was no finding him
(3) It was, actually, the fourteenth door the bookshop had been through. With drunken escapades, fires, Russian mob bosses and, generally, Crowley, the angel had kept B&Q quite busy.
(4) Of course, it wasn’t a waltz. If Aziraphale was asked, he would say that it was almost like the gavotte, but perhaps modernised a little. Crowley would deny any sort of dancing motion with the angel.
(5) Normally, Crowley would be quite fine with blunt hilts smacking him neatly in the chest, but this was a Blessed weapon and, really, it was ridiculously unfair how much of an advantage it gave Angels, all things considered
B&Q is a British store that sells kitchens, bathrooms, tools, doors, windows, and other such things.
Author: atomais
Title: Bulletproof
Genre: Comedy
Pairing/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley, Israfil (the Angel of the Horn).
Rating: G
Summary: When an angel comes after Crowley seeking retribution it's down to Aziraphale to protect his friend.
--
Flickering in and out of darkness, Crowley tried to focus on the dull throbbing below his neck. It was like an ache; familiar and wrong. He wasn’t supposed to feel pain, really, he was sure of it, but that didn’t make it go away. In fact, it seemed quite happy to sit there and be an irritating presence, as though it was scolding him for something.
The sensation of fond irritation struck the demon and he paused before gasping for breath.
Aziraphale.
But before he could even think of moving the darkness consumed him once more.
-
It had started out quite pleasantly, as much awful prose tends to.
The angel moved downstairs from his room to the interior of the bookstore. Of course, he didn’t sleep so nights were often spent either on the brink of drunkenness with Crowley or upstairs in the supposed bedroom, reading a dusty signed Wilde or smiling fondly at a terribly edited biblical volume; it often depended on whatever took the angel’s fancy that night - and, when it came to books, everything tickled Aziraphale’s fancy.
All in all, tickleness aside, it had started out as quite a pleasant day, one which had followed a rather lovely night. This angelic niceness (which was wonderful to Aziraphale, of course, but would have made even the most loving environmentalist feel a little queasy) was disturbed feverishly by the demon that burst through the door, turned, locked it, turned back and then pressed his body against it as though that would stop the supernatural entering the shop.
Aziraphale sighed and looked longingly around the wood panels and the new first editions that had recently come into his possession. Crowley had a way of making one worry for the things they prized, after all. History spoke for itself more than not and he moved from his little desk towards the panicking creature that seemed to be debating between hiding under a nearby table or using said table to block the door.
“Hello, dear boy.”
The demon jumped, as though hearing Aziraphale’s voice from inside his own bookshop was something that was disturbing. He glanced around nervously before slowly rising to stand at full height, adjusting his suit a little. The angel noted that he looked quite pale and he had forgotten to put sunglasses on. Either he had gotten drunk and fallen into the duck pond in the park again (2) or Hastur had come for vengeance. Aziraphale knew which one he preferred.
“Morning, angel. Bit wet out, you know. Cold blooded, hate rain, etcetera. Nice of you to offer me shelter. How about some tea?”
Crowley turned and started an attempt at a brisk walk towards Aziraphale’s little kitchen. Before he could make it half way across the stop he was stopped by Aziraphale moving towards the door curiously, reaching out to open it. Before he could even twist the knob the demon’s hand pressed down on his as he laughed nervously, doing the best to turn the angel and push him away from the door.
“Now, haha, I think perhaps you should make the tea. You’ve always been better at it, haven’t you? Come along, tally ho, you know, angel.”
Said angel looked rather disgruntled.
“Now, Crowley, if you have done something to upset the Metropolitan Police I’m afraid I really cannot help you. It’s against my nature to harbour a fugitive, you know, and frankly I think you probably deserve whatever they’re going to give-”
“No, no angel, you’ve got the complete wrong end of the stick. Look, trust me, you really don’t want to go out there. Got it?”
The angel’s eyebrow lifted. Crowley stared. The angel frowned. Crowley faltered.
“Fine, fine! For H- G- S- Someone’s sake! You’re awful, do you know that! No secrecy, that’s what I have to put up with! What if it was your birthday and I wanted to throw a party? You’d never let me rest if you thought I was keeping something!”
The angel laughed softly. “Goodness, my dear. You would never throw me a party, and I’m quite sure I don’t even have a birthday.”
“You’re missing the point! Can’t you trust me this once?”
Aziraphale paused before shaking his head. He was about to say that of course, he trusted the demon explicitly and just as far as he could throw him, when he felt a strong force press against the bookshop. The force got stronger and stronger, causing the few pens on Aziraphale’s desk to do a little jig whilst the paper near the edge leapt for its life, deciding that it wasn’t worth suffering through the pain of the angel’s accounts anymore. It was like a small earthquake, but contained within one bookshop.
Crowley whimpered and decided the best course of action was to hide behind Aziraphale. Aziraphale decided that it would be best to open the door.
As his hand touched the handle again, the shaking ceased. There was a confused pause (in which Crowley peeked over the angel’s shoulder) and then a quick, precise rap upon the window of the door. Crowley hissed and ducked his head and Aziraphale threw him a dirty look. They had faced the apocalypse and this is how Crowley managed himself? At least he was a little less irritating when he seemed to fear for his life.
“I’m terribly sorry, but we’re closed. Please, do come back tomorrow.” Aziraphale said tartly. There was another knock and then, after a short pause, a third, followed by a voice.
“Aziraphale. Do be kind and open the door, there’s a good dear. I have a job to do and I shouldn’t like to have to summon Gabriel down because you persist in protecting your pet demon. There’s a good boy.”
The principality’s nose wrinkled, and Crowley gasped in a rather remarkable impression of pantomime outrage. “You know him?”
“Of course I know him, Crowley. We all tend to know each other rather well, unfortunately, and Israfil probably has a personal bone to pick with you, my dear. You know I really cannot stand in the way of angelic business.”
“Israfil? You mean the angel of the horn? Judgment day horn-blowing and all that hurrah? Please tell me you’re joking, ange- Are you blushing?”
“No, of course not,” Aziraphale said. He did, however, turn his head away, giving a pointed look at the suicidal paper now littering the floor. Crowley stared at him in bewilderment, but decided it was best to drop the subject when Israfil knocked again.
“Come along, ‘Zira. We’re all friends here, no? I really do need to smite him, I’m afraid. I get that you’re all friendly with the poor dear but it’s divine retribution.”
“You intend to smite him, I presume?” Aziraphale asked with tiredness echoing in the gentle sigh that followed. He held up a hand as Crowley began his violent protests - he had come to Aziraphale for protection, after all.
“Well, yes. But only a little bit, dear friend! He’ll still be capable of slythering around getting up to mischief for you to put a stop to, I’m sure. He does deserve it - do you know how long I’ve been waiting to blow that horn?”
“A long time?” Crowley supplied with a smirk. Aziraphale glared.
“A very long time,” Israfil replied, sounding very affronted - as though Crowley had just told him that his angelic flower garden wasn’t really up to scratch. The angel - that is, the angel currently pretending he couldn’t feel his demonic friend’s nails press into his back rather painfully - sighed, crossing his arms.
“Yes, well, petty vengeance over your lack of purpose should really be left Up There, don't you think, dear? I understand that Crowley may have stopped judgment coming on time but, really, Israfil, this is too much even for you. You know vengeance is for the Lord to conduct as He sees fit.” The duo could almost hear the angelic outrage from the other side of the door.
After a long moment, a sword was thrust through the front door. Aziraphale almost wept (3).
“Here’s Johnny!” Crowley hissed into his ear, and Aziraphale turned to give him A Look.
“I thought you were quite aware that his name is Israfil, my dear. Is there something wrong with your hearing?” Crowley rubbed his forehead with a hand before waving the angel away.
“Perhaps you should focus on the flaming sword sticking through your door, angel.” Said angel thought that was quite a good idea and he stepped back, pushing Crowley with him in an awkward waltz-like motion (4).
Israfil, in all his Holy Glory, looked rather like a slightly overweight Scottish banker that hadn’t really remembered that he needed to wash his clothes. Aziraphale pitied the man’s lack of new clothes - while smiling fondly at his new crisp white shirt - while Crowley wondered if tartan was part of angelic uniform, a thought that turned his stomach.
“Aziraphale, really. I never thought I would see you preventing a rightful course of action - save that whole End-Of-The-World deal. I don’t think Michael has quite forgiven you for that. Did you know he had spent a good month sharpening swords? Poor dear.”
“Goodness, really? Dear me, now I truly do feel rather awful.” Israfil looked quite pleased with the answer whilst Crowley’s bright yellow eyes stared at Aziraphale as though he had just grown a pair of horns and declared himself Lucifer.
“Angel, did you just successfully pull off sarcasm?” The demon asked. Aziraphale merely smiled.
“Do be quite, demon. The Righteous are speaking, there’s a good boy.” Israfil gave Crowley a fatherly smile before pulling his sword out of the door and stepping through the gap. Aziraphale looked as though the angel had stabbed him through the heart as splinters of wood fell to the ground. “Now, please don’t tell me I will have to fight you for him, Aziraphale. That’s not good conduct, you know that, and imagine the paperwork!” Aziraphale imagined. He shuddered.
“I am quite sorry, dear boy, but I’m afraid Crowley is off limits when it comes to angelic retribution. I will have to stand in your way.”
Israfil nodded.
“Fair enough.”
And then he charged.
-
When Crowley finally come too (properly, instead of the wishy-washy half-consciousness that he had spent the best part of an hour suffering through) Aziraphale was sitting beside him, book in hand. He didn’t look entirely fussed, save for the wrinkles in his collar and a few dark red stains on his shirt. Suddenly, Crowley felt a little less like being awake.
“’Lo, angel.” He tried to sit up, but a dull throbbing in the back of his head made him decide that wasn’t the best idea he’d had in a while. Aziraphale put his book down and shifted his chair so that he was looking at the demon properly.
“Hello, dear. How are you feeling? I did my best, but there’s only so much angelic healing can do for a demon, you know.” He did look rather put out and Crowley supposed that forgave the pounding of blood in his ears and the throbbing in his chest.
“I’m fine and dandy, no worries here,” He said with a wave of his hand. “Just tingling from all that angelic retribution. I think that’s a hobby I can happily say I will not be taking up. Angelic punching bag is off the bucket list, you’ll be glad to know.”
Aziraphale stared at him.
“It’s not an actual list in a bucket, or a list of buckets, or anything like that.”
“Oh. Right.”
Crowley almost wished he was still knocked out.
“So, you want to tell me what happened or do I have to ask his Horniness himself?” Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he looked more than a little flustered (Crowley only then realised the pun - he was doing these things without thinking now, the sign of a good demon) before he nodded his head.
“Well, I fought him off.”
Crowley started laughing.
-
Aziraphale watched with wide eyes as Israfil slammed the blunt hilt of the sword into Crowley’s chest, pinning him awkwardly against one of the walls, knocking him out while quite probably leaving him with a rather nasty bruise (5). He looked around desperately, trying to find some kind of weapon to use against a vengeance seeking angel and the first thing he grabbed was a lamp. Moving forward, he smashed it against Israfil’s head, like he had seen in those wonderful fifties films where the policeman was always right and things were wonderful.
Israfil just stared at him as though he was barmy.
“Honestly, ‘Zira, you’ve been down here too long. You honestly thought that would stop an angel? Dear me, I am quite disappointed.” Unfortunately, the Angel of the Horn quite forgot about the fact that Aziraphale was still rather quick-witted. He reached out and touched his fingers to Israfil’s now less-flamey flaming Sword and, in his other hand, his own (admittedly, rather less impressive) sword appeared in his hand in place of a lamp shard. He just needed a good blueprint, that was all. The angel’s stared at each other before the one pinning Crowley started laughing.
“My, my, Aziraphale. How many centuries has it been since you even touched a sword? I’m impressed by your valour if nothing else. It’s quite touching to see you so devoted to your little demonic pet.”
He thought better of his words when Aziraphale lunged.
Not many people have had the pleasure of seeing angels fight, mostly because their nature is one of Christian pacifism and tender, light-hearted debates instead of full-out swordfights. Even their jousting was done with oven mitts and marshmallows on the ends of the blade. This fight, however, was something spectacular. Both of the heavenly beings had a good reason to fight (at least in their own minds) and both would rather go through the tedious paperwork that followed discorporation than give up or, worse, lose.
Their swords clashed magnificently, and Aziraphale winced under the pressure. Israfil had been right, it had been a long time (the uncertain moments he’d held the sword when they thought it was all over barely counted for practice) and he wasn’t too sure he could actually win. The thought actually scared him and he pressed forward, trying to overpower the angel opposite him.
Israfil twisted and turned away, watching in amusement as Aziraphale stumbled forward awkwardly. The mishap didn’t phase the former Guardian at all as he moved forward, lunging at the Angel of the Horn with something a little stronger than determination in his eyes. It wasn’t murder, but it was as close as an angel could get without running the risk of not being an angel anymore.
If Aziraphale had been a little more poetic he might have described their fight as a badly choreographed dance that tried to be a gavotte but ended up being a underwater barn dance. They leapt, parried, pushed and shoved, Aziraphale determined to protect Crowley and Israfil determined to gain what he felt was his. Although it had been centuries, Aziraphale had to admit to himself that he really wasn’t all that bad at this sword-fighting lark, despite the cuts that the other angel had managed to lay against him in an obvious attempt to prove otherwise. Israfil seemed to think the same about himself.
“I do hate to toot my own horn -” Aziraphale groaned at the horrible pun as he twisted and tried to land a blow on the other angel’s shoulder. “- but I’m still rather good at this battling thing, aren’t I? How extraordinary. I’m quite proud of you too, ‘Zira, but you’re not quite good enough I’m afraid.”
There was a low ching sound as their swords clashed again, and they sidestepped each other. Aziraphale was twisting and turning nervously, pushing hard against the parries and blows. He could feel fond memories of Prince Arthur and Lancelot and all the people that had fallen into myths come over him and he smiled to himself - which resulted in Israfil almost cutting his neck clean off. He moved backwards and ended up holding his sword out - as Israfil did the same. The tips of the blades touched each other gently and Aziraphale wondered what on earth he was supposed to do.
Glancing at Crowley he did his best not to wince. There was a purple-brown mark on his chest, half-bruise and half-burn, and it looked like he would have a rotten headache when he finally came to. Israfil took advantage of his moment of distraction and leapt forward, opening his wings to offer himself momentum. Almost acting on instinct Aziraphale opened his own, using them as a shield - and it hurt. He could feel the ripple of pain and he knew, deep down inside himself, that his pristine white wings were now stained red. He hissed a little in pain (completely different from Crowley’s snake hisses) and pushed forward, using the air to push himself into Israfil.
What came next was less of a sword-fight and more of a tussle. Aziraphale and Israfil pushed against each other, trying to bend their arms in ways that would let them use their swords offensively, but the close contact that came from a near fight-fight prevented the steel being used. Eventually, Aziraphale threw his sword to one side and moved, pressing his hand down against one of Israfil’s wings, effectively pinning him. He moved and straddled the other angel with a wince before grabbing the angel’s sword, throwing it to rest near his own.
Both angels were breathing heavily despite not needing to actually breathe, and Aziraphale had come out on top. Literally.
“There now,” Aziraphale said softly. “Be a good dear and leave Crowley alone, won’t you? It wouldn’t do you any good to try and hurt him now, don’t you think? I’d hate to have to complain about you deliberately attacking a fellow angel - I’m sure you’re quite aware of how Gabriel feels about those sorts of things.”
Israfil sighed and lifted a hand weakly in surrender. Aziraphale smiled and rose to his feet, moving over to pick up the swords and miracle them away to some dark place in the back room of the bookshop. Looking around, he winced. Torn covers, cut leather, dust scattered everywhere - perhaps he should have let Crowley get smited. Just a little.
“For an old boy you’ve still got the spirit, dear,” Israfil said softly, retracting his wings. Aziraphale didn’t dare do the same in fear of the pain. The other angel continued. “I am not sorry for coming to take what was mine by right, but I suppose there will be another Judgement day. I will be looking for you then, Aziraphale. You can’t get away with it twice.”
Aziraphale nodded. He knew that, and it caused his body to feel rather cold. “Thank you, dear boy. I think it would be best if you left now - I don’t think Crowley would be all that happy to see you should he awaken sometime soon.” Israfil nodded solemnly, turning towards the door. Aziraphale watched him, feeling as though it was too good to be true.
“Oh, ‘Zira, dear,” Israfil began slowly. The other angel’s eyes flickered back to him as he paused in his rush to see Crowley. “I wouldn’t expect a Christmas card this year.”
Aziraphale could have laughed.
-
Crowley was speechless.
“You actually fought him off? With swords and blood and -- you fought him off? You could have died- discorporated!”
Aziraphale nodded his head, wincing as he felt the strain of his wings. Crowley saw and hissed in anger, twisting his hands as a bowl of warm water appeared in them. “Come here, angel.”
The angel moved forward, turning rather nervously to face his friend. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust him, but it was that… Grooming wings could often be painful, moreso if they were already scratched up from an angelic duel. Still, Crowley’s hands were gentle and Aziraphale could barely feel the pain under the warmth of the warm water.
Crowley, himself, felt warm even without the water. He could feel the bubbling happiness spread through him as he realised, rather unsettlingly, that Aziraphale had fought for him and, in a way, his honour. It was strange, but he would never admit that the thought made him more than a little happy. It was nice to have someone looking out for you, after all.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and he didn’t expect a reply.
-
(1) It might even be said that Aziraphale’s novella fancies were more tickable than others, but that was a debate that the angel did his best not to allow to be brought to light. It almost measured up to the tickableness of his fancies for food, wine and ducks.
(2) The police had searched valiantly, but when a demon wanted to hide there was no finding him
(3) It was, actually, the fourteenth door the bookshop had been through. With drunken escapades, fires, Russian mob bosses and, generally, Crowley, the angel had kept B&Q quite busy.
(4) Of course, it wasn’t a waltz. If Aziraphale was asked, he would say that it was almost like the gavotte, but perhaps modernised a little. Crowley would deny any sort of dancing motion with the angel.
(5) Normally, Crowley would be quite fine with blunt hilts smacking him neatly in the chest, but this was a Blessed weapon and, really, it was ridiculously unfair how much of an advantage it gave Angels, all things considered
B&Q is a British store that sells kitchens, bathrooms, tools, doors, windows, and other such things.